Prelude
by folie a plusieurs
Summary: "prelude, noun; 1 - an action or event serving as an introduction to something more important." / every story has a beginning. this is theirs. emma & leo, pre-red band society. trigger warning for eating disorders.


one -— home

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><p>The hospital is white, so much white. It's blinding for Emma. Immediately she knows that she hates it here. She hates the cheery nurses, the linoleum floors, the fluorescent lighting, the doctors all brisk and busy, as if they've always got somewhere more important to be, someone more important to see. What's more important than the current patient you're supposed to be taking care of? Huh?<p>

Emma wants to go home. She wants to disappear underneath the radar, never again wants to hear her name whispered in the mouths of students and teachers and doctors and nurses and, god forbid, her own parents. She doesn't want to hear third-party versions of her incident. Doesn't want people who weren't even there to retell the story of her collapse in the cafeteria (oh, sweet irony). She never wants to hear the 'A' word ever again.

Emma is fine, perfectly so. She's talking, walking, has gained most of her energy (weight) back. She wants to leave this place. Except, apparently, she cannot. Apparently, everyone seems to think she hasn't gained any energy back. That she still requires more... professional help before she can go. It's a frustrating thought and makes her want to drive her head through a wall.

"Emma," her mother tries, fingers outstretched. She considers placing them over Emma's but clearly decides against it and instead allows them to fall into her own lap and wring against one another. It's a nervous habit of hers. She remembers when she was younger, watching her mother do that before an important event or whenever her father was late for dinner. Things like that. Things she felt she had to worry over. Emma trains her gaze on her mothers frail hands. Her fingers are still long and slim as they were when she was eight, still as elegant; that of a pianist. Emma knows better — she hasn't played in years. "It's not forever," she promises but Emma's not hearing it.

It's already been forever. This place is cold and scary and she misses her bed, her warm blue walls covered in photographs and pictures, posters and postcards. Scraps of her old life. She misses her life — unscathed, untouched. Without disorder. Without fluorescent lighting.

"The doctors said—"

Emma already knows what the doctors said, she doesn't understand why they feel the need to repeat it a thousand times as if it will somehow solidify what she already knows: Emma is sick. Emma needs to get better.

It's a mantra that's been repeated in every way possible over and over again since she was first checked into the E.R.

"I want to go home," it's a plea at this point. Her mother looks like she's going to start crying again and her father rakes his fingers through his hair. Emma notes it's newly streaked with grey hairs. Her stomach churns with guilt. She is sorry for being so difficult; sorry that she requires so much more than most other fifteen year olds do. This was never her intention: to be an inconvenience.

It's not that she wants to be difficult nor that she's ever been all that difficult. It's just... She's not this person. She's never been this person. The girl in the hospital. The girl who nearly died. The girl who needs help. The girl people have to worry about and stress over.

Emma insists she does not need help, but deep down she knows. Her issues are far deeper rooted than she can handle on her own. You can only ignore your problems for so long before they spin out of control. She was beginning to learn this the hard way.

"I know, sweetheart." Her father gently coaxes. He's trying. They're all trying. Somehow, it's not enough. "But you need this. We need you to do this. If not for yourself, then for us." Emma's parents unconsciously lean into one another. Her fathers hand reaches for her mothers.

Emma stares at their entwined hands for a very long time. What's it like? She wonders. To always have someone in your corner. Someone who cares what happens to you, and not out of obligation, not someone you had no choice in the matter with like parents or children or siblings; but someone you chose.

Emma feels dizzy with the emotion she'd been burying in the past year. It's reaching a climax behind her eyes and in her veins and her body shakes. It's difficult to repress but she manages just long enough to ask them, "May I take a walk? I need some fresh air."

Her parents are the picture of a united front: hands entwined, faces pulled into the same concerned, puckered expression, eyes shifting between one another and their daughter. Clearly they are questioning whether it's a good idea to let their emotionally unstable teenaged daughter to wander around the hospital alone or not. Anything could happen. She wasn't in her right state of mind - for all they thought she was planning an escape. Emma wouldn't blame them if they were suspicious. She surely _felt _like planning an escape. It is her mother who finally speaks up, agreeing. "But only for a little bit. No longer than an hour. The doctor will be here at six to discuss treatment options."

Emma only nods, because what else is there for her to say? She stands and makes her escape, ignoring the worried looks her parents cast at her back as she goes. She wishes they wouldn't. Worrying changes nothing. Emma knows this much better than anyone. They should save their concern. She's been enough trouble.

The hallway floors of the hospital are cold against her bare feet. She wonders if she looks abnormal walking down a hall like this with no shoes on and some serious bed head. In any other place she would, but somehow she blends in here more this way than if she'd had perfectly combed hair and a pair of fresh jeans on. Emma's thin frame is already wracking with shivers and shakes by the time she reaches the end of the hall and makes a left turn. She vaguely recognizes it as one of the attacks she'd been having. Her nail beds dig into her palms as she wonders down a hall she'd never been on and she forces herself to breathe until it goes away; until her nails can fall from her palms and her hands don't ball into fists.

She pauses to look around. It's like a jungle in here. One almost impossible to escape. Emma would love to escape.

Her eyes cast longingly towards a door marked 'EMERGENCY EXIT.' She briefly considers it: pushing it open, feeling the warm breeze on her cheeks. Feeling all of the freedom she's recently been lacking. Stepping out onto the gravel and running, bare feet or not. Only stopping when her lungs feel like they would explode and the soles of her feet bleed.

It's not a good idea. Nor is it one she's going to set into action. It's one of those things people like to imagine even though they know the probability of it becoming reality is slim to none. In most cases simply just none; in her case none. Still, it makes people feel better to imagine. It's freedom in it's own right. How would she explain it though? 'Oh, I just thought it was the bathroom.' The idea is scoff-able. No one with half a brain would believe that. No one with a third of a brain would believe that.

She sighs and finds a vending machine. Of course, she's not going to stick quarters into it and select chips or cookies or gum. Instead she stares into it with empty eyes. In another world, in another universe, this machine is her friend. In another universe, this machine doesn't frighten her. It causes no nerves in her stomach, doesn't make her feel dizzy with hatred.

In another world, it is just a vending machine. It is just food. It has no power over her.

"Are you going to stand there and stare all day? Or are you going to stick some quarters into the damn thing and make your selection."

Little does this stranger know, Emma has already made her choices.

She turns to him with raised eyebrows. He is attractive, despite a bald head. No. Not despite. She finds his bare scalp just as attractive as the rest of him. Immediately Emma hates this arrogant, rude, attractive boy. How dare him. "It's called manners, for one. Two, no. I am not going to waste any of my hypothetical quarters on anything in this machine. So go right ahead. Get your disgusting and most likely stale potato chips." She side steps. "Don't let me stand in your way."

It's only when he hobbles forward that she realizes he's on crutches. A part of her that she immediately labels 'TREACHEROUS' wonders what he's in for, if it's cancer or something else—and it's so ironic how it sounds like a prison sentence because isn't it? They're all on death row, just waiting for it.

The boy on the crutches just smirks at her, amusement clear in his eyes. "I was actually getting pretzels."

Emma blanches.

Her face turns several shades of red (and even a few of purple) and she splutters. He finds it easy to ignore her, balancing on one crutch as his other hand digs through his pockets and pulls out several coins. He disposes them into the machine and presses a few buttons. "You–" she can't even think of a proper insult or comeback. The nerve of this boy. Excuse her for standing in the way of his precious pretzels, how dare her?! Clearly she'd been doing it on purpose right? Wrong.

The machine makes a low grumbling noise and releases his pretzels. Part of her immaturely wishes they'd gotten stuck.

Emma finally settles for a "get your head out of your rectum," and then stomps away. The boy only leans against the machine, crunching on his salty treat in response, completely unaffected.

Emma hates him. Hates the affect he's had on her, the way he so easily made her lose not only her cool but her words as well. No one leaves Emma Chota speechless. No one.

She hopes she never sees him again. It would not end well if she did. The words hadn't come then, but they were coming now and she would have no problem telling him what she thinks of him and his pretzels.

When she returns to her parents she's calmed her breathing and has masked all emotion. It's what she's good at, after all. Maintaing control. "I want to go home. Please," she requests levelly. They won't listen if she gets upset. If she asks them calmly they'll think she's in a good, stable place. She just has to show them. They share another look. It's blatantly clear that the decision has already been made. Without her. It's unsurprising; she's a minor, a sick one who 'cannot make rational decisions' no less. Why would they allow her to make such a big one by herself? Not even Emma would if she were in their position but it still hurts.

"I want to go home," she tries again, eyes filling with unshed tears. In all of her life, Emma has never been so emotional. She's never shouted or yelled or been unreasonable or lost her cool, especially not towards her parents. It makes her sick with herself to see herself slipping; the mask falling away revealing all of her emotions right on her sleeve. Emma feels weak.

Her control is disappearing and it frightens Emma. It is all she has.

"Let's just wait for the doctors. They won't be much longer now." Her parents promise and Emma bites her lip. A metallic taste floods her tongue. The word 'please' dies in her mouth. She can't change their minds, she's frightened and upset to realize. It's beyond that. They've made their choice – and hers as well. The thought is so helpless, so utterly frustrating. This is her life, her choice. She's the one who has to live it, live with it. They don't even allow her any say, even if her say would be compromised due to her emotions.

The doctor enters the room, smiling and kind to Emma. There is no judgment on his face even as he grasps her file in his hand, one she's certain he's just recently finished reading. The one with 'anorexia' scribbled inside of it. It's still hard for her to admit it to herself: She has a problem. She has a problem. Her lack of eating is a problem. It never felt like a problem to her. She was in control. She is in control.

"Hello, Emma. I'm Doctor McAndrew." He reaches out his palm and she shakes his hand, not showing her reluctance to do so. Not showing anything at all. His palm is cold and feels as if it's been bleached with hand sanitizer. "We're going to do all that we can to meet all of your individual needs and concerns. A more..." He pauses glancing around the small hospital room, clearly not meant for anything more than temporary living. "Suitable room is being sorted for you right now. We should have you moved into it by tonight."

Emma nods and swallows and as he dives right into his treatment plan and goals, as well as her schedule (which consists of a steady flow of classes and therapy sessions with emphases on meal times), she thinks all that's missing is a big, fat, welcome home sign—because that's what this place is now, right? Her home.

The thought leaves her feeling sick to her stomach. This place will never be home.


End file.
